


Memories Lost

by Evil_Little_Dog



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Community: fma_fic_contest, Drinking, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 16:11:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evil_Little_Dog/pseuds/Evil_Little_Dog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary:  He can’t remember, any more.<br/>Disclaimer:  Do you see my copyright on this?  Then you know I don’t own it.  (Drat.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memories Lost

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Only if you don’t know the relationship between the two characters.

Roy accepts the drink from Madam Christmas, owner of the establishment known as the Barking Spider. He sips at it, relishing the burn of the whiskey as it slid down his throat, hitting his nearly-empty stomach. He knows it would be easy to get drunk tonight, of all nights, but he doesn’t order any of the Madam’s infamous dishes, not all of them fried, many coming with a crunchy-spicy dill pickle, strong enough to make a man’s eyes water. Instead, he takes another sip.

“You’re here alone tonight, Roy-Boy,” Christmas says, lighting a cigarette. It’s hard to tell from the dim lighting, but Roy thinks her eyes are weary, and maybe red. If he didn’t know better, he’d guess from the cigarettes she always smoked in an ivory holder. 

“Seemed appropriate,” he says with a shrug. Slowly, he rotates his glass on top of the bar. “Did you ever forget something important, Madam?” Her eyebrows rise, though she doesn’t answer him verbally. Roy takes that as an invitation to keep talking. “I lost my parents when I was very young. I realized today, outside of the few photographs I have, I wouldn’t recognize their smiles.” Picking up his glass, he drains it, and sets it back on the counter, upside-down. 

Christmas studies him through the tendrils of cigarette smoke. “Why don’t you have another, on the house.” She pours him another glass, sliding it across the counter to him. 

Roy drinks that one just as quickly, then a third, when the Madam passes the next one his way. The whiskey hits hard and fast, leaving him hanging over the counter like a common drunk. He feels someone hauling him off the bar, and half-dragging him to a room, where he’s laid out on a couch, with a bucket next to his head. “Don’t mess up my office too much, Roy-Boy,” Christmas says, then, a few seconds later, she adds, “and if you want to see your parents’s smiles, look in a mirror some time.” 


End file.
